The Ballad of Clint Barton
by The Poison Ivy League
Summary: It's not that being a secret agent/spy/assassin/Avenger isn't cool, but sometimes... well, things get awfully stressful.


_Standard disclaimers apply. Reedited and reposted for a significantly longer first chapter, with some new ideas as to the overall direction of this, hopefully more humour and romance to lighten darker tone. Not sure where this is going really, not sure I'll even finish it as what I've originally envisioned is quite sprawling, but a thought struck me at the end of the movie. No way in real life do superheroes fight aliens and destroy NY and they get a Hollywood ending, life afterwards would be the hard part. Aliens, point and shoot, but modern life? The media, politicians, the public. It would just be a storm that would make everyone's life a nightmare. The trailer for Iron Man 3 somewhat plays to this, life after NY is problematic._

_There will be a whole cast of Marvel characters possibly, most of them some amalgamation of the various alternative versions from comics, movies, cartoons and my own ideas largely because it makes writing a story more grounded in contemporary reality and plausibility easier given all the intersecting continuity. I like Hawkeye, he is a good guy, as Matt Fraction says the type of guy that would help you move your couch, even in the rain. Marvel though has created a new universe where he is an assassin, which is an interesting binary, good guy/paid killer. So if this goes the way it should, there will be a fair amount of violence, immorality and hypocrisy; essentially trying to make the characters as human as possible. I will try and keep the heroes the good guys but they may not necessarily be people who make good decisions in every instance and always do the right thing, or even totally likeable all the time, like real people. Hopefully it's fun and entertaining. Also there may be few one liners borrowed here and there from various pop culture, merely because dialogue is a weak point of mine, and heroes need witty one liners._

The city of New York is used to picking itself back up of the ground, dusting itself off and getting back to business. Yellow fever, fire, cholera, riots, blizzards, heat waves, influenza, stock market crashes, bombings, plane crashes, corruption, assassinations, blackouts, murders, baseball, racism, shootings, terrorism, storms and apparently aliens. It is how two men can meet in Foster Park, seemingly taking a break from the pickup basketball game mere feet away and know that the city will hum along around them, hiding in plain sight. New Yorkers tend to keep their heads down and push forward through the rat race.

"There is going to be blowback on this one," says the dark standing figure, a lone eye following the action on the court.

"Saw that coming didn't we," responds the slumped figure, taking a rest on the cold, cracked concrete while rummaging for a water bottle buried somewhere in the tattered gym bag beside him.

"The suits want someone to feed to the sharks, and since the most obvious target is out of reach… "

"Yeah."

"The long knives are out; I don't have the suction to shut this down, running out of cards to play."

"They gonna black bag me? Or will it be a show?"

"Not sure how hard they want to play this yet, but they may just have a big enough hard on to put everyone's shit out in the street on this."

"Well fuck…"

"Damn skippy son, that is a game you can't win, even if you got Captain motherfuckin' America on speed dial."

A blank look, a sweat soaked towel draped over the head to hide the roll of the eyes.

"I don't, put I see your point."

"So… "

"So?"

A menacing look, an exhale of breath in frustration.

"You really this damn stupid? Tell me you're going to stand tall and not take a humble on this, you're a giant asshole, be one now."

"Sir?"

"I brought you into this outfit because there are few people on this planet that can ruin a man's day like you, go back to that rat hole you call an apartment and gear the fuck up. If you have to run, you might as well run at them."

The taller, darker figure glowers. A single eye flashes towards to folded copy of the _Times_ dropped into the gym bag, and turns to stride away, out into the hustle of the city. There is some worry as to what lays hidden in the broadsheets, where the hell this is leading.

"Oh, and Barton…"

"Yes Sir?"

"Leave the fucking bow and arrows behind on this one, don't make too easy for them to track you."

And with that he is gone; there is only a man in a rumpled gym clothes on the ground, he waves off the locals seeking to have him join in the crisp, cool afternoon fun. The bouncing ball, sliding sneakers paired with boasts, taunts, threats, and barbaric yawps. Perhaps one of the last moments like this the park will see before winter arrives in earnest and the park grows lonely, only the foolish and zealous braving the cold.

"Ah shit."

Natasha Romanoff is very good at her job; it comes from not having much of an identity to begin with, so a life of endlessly masquerading as someone else comes easy as breathing. In the aftermath of Loki, she has been given a promotion of a sort; she is Fury's new red right hand. This comes with some undesirable elements like liaising with certain distasteful parties, which places her in packed elevator with only gossip to distract her from the annoyance of her current predicament. Once again she is Natalie Rushman from Legal, and today she has a meeting with Tony Stark.

On the second floor, she has to roll her eyes.

"A guy came up to me at the gym and asked me what event I was training so hard for. Life, motherfucker."

The eleventh floor, she cracks an unnoticed smile.

"Hey, it's 12/12/12 today."

"Big fucking deal. Every date only happens once. That's how time works."

The twentieth the girl next her coughs to cover something that sounds exactly like asshole.

"Almost time for children to learn a valuable life lesson. Santa loves rich kids more."

The thirty seventh floor she finds herself nodding her head in agreement.

"China is our landlord and we know he's beating his wife but we're two months behind on rent so we let it slide."

The forty fifth she is silently aghast at people's color choices.

"If I could choose between world peace and a reasonable fortune, my first Lambo would be orange."

Somewhere around the sixtieth she just wishes Stark would have turned his engineering talents to making faster elevators.

"People can be drug-tested to keep their jobs, but not to receive government benefits? Explain that shit to me. Please."

As she steps off on the top floor, she actually gets to hear something that settles like a stone in her stomach.

"Soccer moms in Ohio can shut the fuck up about alien invasions on Facebook. I lost actual friends."

The rarified air of the domain of Tony Stark overlooking the East River is a hub of activity, Potts is neck deep in complaints from the City Planning Commission about the R&D floors of the tower violating the C5-3 commercial district zoning laws and the need for an amendment proposal, problems with the tower being way too big a target for alien terrorists to command top rents to fill some of the still vacant lower floor office space and Banner's presence is not helping drive up the price either, especially since Tony had found out trademarking the term Hulk-proof and buying .com was a complete waste of money. In addition, the FAA was demanding the suit be fitted with a transponder for air safety concerns. At this rate, the next tower is never going to be built, especially given concerns in the media about arc reactors in urban areas due to the unknown capabilities of the technology.

Stark himself is lazily channeling hopping through the morning's news with aid of JARVIS and what Romanoff considers a disgusting amount of technology for the purposes of watching television, he also appears to be editing his Wikipedia entry to ensure billionaire superhero precedes each mention of his name. The ridiculous pair of Louboutins on her feet sinks into the woven hypoallergenic carpet, but freeze in her determined stalking towards the billionaire.

Live and in color is Barton's menacing face on the massive volumetric display Stark has tuned to CNN, she knows that picture, that hungover and unshaven face appears on his official SHIELD employee ID. It takes a moment, but Romanoff's brain catches up with her eyes. No one in the media should have access to that photo, no one should know Barton exists; he escaped being captured on camera in the battle. There is a leak the size of Niagara Falls in SHIELD.

"_An anonymous source close to the ongoing Congressional investigation into this summer's extraterrestrial incident has identified this man, Clint Barton as a person of interest…"_

The rest of it isn't particularly important, Natasha immediately understands where this is going, Barton is the sacrificial lamb, a war criminal.

"Hey, that's…"

"Yes."

"Well"

The tablet Natasha has brought with her for Stark's perusal is handed to Potts, because the job is still the job and she may just hurl the damn thing against a wall if she doesn't, and turned on her heel to make what was most certainly too long a trip back down. Tony seems to think this is an opportunity, for well she doesn't know, but he is quick to follow. Natasha tries to ignore his endless prattling on the way down, instead attempting to reach Fury, Hill, or really anyone at this point to understand what the hell is going on.

She is stomping across the pavement towards, too distracted to notice Stark guiding her in the direction of Happy and a waiting car, when she finally gets through to Fury.

"Sir, I…"

"I know, it hit the press before I was ready, we are at a Level 4 emergency here. I need you here."

"Sir, where the hell is Barton?"

"In the damn wind and god speed at this point."

"You knew… He knew, why was this not information that the rest of us were privy to?"

There is an audible sigh, the sounds of panic and activity in the background.

"Barton is wears big boy pants just like the rest of you, and I am not having this conversation over an unsecured line. You want to have this talk, get here now."

There is only a dial tone to respond to Natasha's growl of frustration, and Stark and Hogan looking inquisitive. Her first instinct to race to Fury, but another thought derails that plan of action.

"Quincy and Tompkins in Bed-Stuy, NOW."

"What's out in Brooklyn?"

Tony and Happy are practically bursting with curiosity; frankly Natasha is surprised Stark hasn't exploded in a shower of scotch and righteous indignation at this point.

"Barton's place, with any luck we still have time."

Romanoff wills the sleek black German monstrosity to move faster through the turmoil of Manhattan traffic, but the city moves at its own pace. The crawl down towards the Williamsburg Bridge is excruciating, but finally Brooklyn is within view.

There is a distinct lack of law enforcement around Barton's squat brick apartment building, but Natasha is cautious and hopes to move in and out unnoticed, this is complicated by Hogan sitting in a rather brazen sedan, and Stark trailing behind her yammering away.

"Brooklyn? Really? I guess it has a certain street cred, but still. How much do they pay you guys?"

Romanoff quiets him with a look, although she does agree. Her preference has always leaned more in the direction of places like her Tribeca loft and only once has stepped foot in Barton's apartment, from then on it was not even a question of where they would meet.

Natasha has a key, Barton made sure of that and it proves useful to have now. A quick word ensures Tony is quite clear that fingerprints are bad, so no touching, as a pair of leather gloves ensure Natasha doesn't leave any of her own. Clint's apartment is pretty Spartan, the main room all exposed brick walls and beaten hardwood with a small orderly kitchenette, a coffee maker that cost him a few thousand that only concession to luxury. Barton is a coffee snob, no decaf half fat whateverthefuckiattos, actual real black coffee that you can taste. A bookcase dominates one wall, the only chaotic area in the room; she allows herself a moment to scan it quickly, looking for some clue, a breadcrumb. Nothing. No obvious codes or messages.

The walls are pretty bare, only an almost floor to ceiling framed, faded poster for Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders and a rather desolate black and white mountain landscape photo that could be from any number of places, a search reveals nothing. The television fed by a stolen cable hookup, a DVR Natasha knows is filled with horrid TV that Barton never has a chance to watch and old corded telephone attached to the wall, which is some kind of sin if the noise Tony makes are anything to go by, also hide nothing. Stark peruses Barton's bookcase from the beaten leather sofa, probably for some personal insight into the man, rather than anything helpful to the present crisis, while Natasha heads for the bedroom.

The bed is neat as a pin, hospital corners tight as a drum, and the small table beside is bare. The wall though, there is her clue, in place of what Barton had called his to do list. Where once was a large world map, littered with pins, news articles, post it notes and pictures is a single piece of paper.

_Red-_

_I don't come back from this, say something crazy awesome about my manhood at the funeral, maybe get Thor to help you write some epic poetry. Sorry it might end like this, and that you probably had to hear about it on the news instead of from me, and you're probably pretty pissed at me for going all lone ranger but its best I put some road between me and everybody._

_C._

_PS. Clean out the safe, combo is 36-24-36._

_PPS. There is an envelope in there for a Mr. Foon at the Great Dragon on 8__th__ Avenue in Sunset Park. I owe him._

_PPPS. If you hear from Barbara about missing alimony, tell her to fuck off, she took my dog._

This is what Natasha is left with, crude jokes, gambling debts, and ex-wives. The fact she has slept with him has never felt more embarassing. Time is of the essence though, so Natasha rips open the closet and tries to control herself as Stark has wandered into room. The suits, shirts and ties are pushed out of the way and the lock fumbled with, and a duffel bag is thrown at Stark.

"Open it, we need to move."

Anger makes quick work, a stack of thick manila envelopes is thrown into the bag to be inspected later, as Barton stated there is some cash in a wrinkled white envelope labelled Uncle Foon left but judging by the currency bands left a fair amount is gone with Barton as well, along with what appears to be an insufficient level of weaponry in Natasha's estimation; at most a few handguns and a rifle or two, maybe some knives. The small arms and ammunition go into the bag as well, the rifles slipped into a shooter's mat that doubles as a carrying case. What stops both Stark and Romanoff is Clint's bow laying at the bottom of with a purple post it note stuck to the quiver saying "Don't Fuck With It!"

"He's good with a gun right?"

"They don't let you use a bow in the military, Barton doesn't miss, if it can be shot or thrown, he'll hit the target. World's Greatest Marksman with capital letters."

"Well, that's encouraging."

Natasha really hopes this is true, and all Barton's bullshit about, well everything, doesn't turn out to be just that. Worry creeps in where it has no place, despite the years of training and experience, Clint is the way too far past thirty and just human. It only takes one bullet, one slip, Barton made sure to impress that upon her daily in the beginning, back when he seemed young and invincible to her eyes. Fear never seemed a useful thing till this moment, it is incredibly motivating, as he picture of Clint in Natasha's mind right now has one too many grey hairs and complains far too much about his back.

"We might as well stop for Chinese, I skipped breakfast."

Fury, with Rogers, waits by the _Swords into Plowshares_ statue at the UN building, whether he thinks this is somehow funny, Natasha doesn't know, doesn't care. Stark trails in her wake, hopelessly fumbling shrimp and rice into his mouth with chopsticks. Natasha has a receipt crushed in her hand.

The cold eyed and faked smiled Uncle Foon had been most insistent, it is a clue and judging by the amount of money in the envelope Natasha handed over, the old bastard had a hand in helping Clint ghost his way off to wherever. Ideally, the old man could have been made to talk, but his thick muscled, tattooed and well-armed _nephews_ looked serious enough that it was no sure bet they would walk out of there. Natasha should have left the house with more weapons. The only hope she has is that whatever clue this paper holds, in conjunction to the things liberated from Clint's safe form a decent trail of breadcrumbs.

"I want some goddamn answers, Sir, Barton is now a war criminal and international fugitive and the clock has been ticking on this for hours now."

"Barton was fully cognizant this was a possibility, we discussed it in the debrief after Loki."

"I understand that; that you knew, that he knew. My question is, why this was privileged information? I think this could have gone a hell of a lot better if we weren't blindsided by Soledad O'Brien plastering Barton's employee photo all over the TV."

Fury gave her a look like he thought she was stupid, glanced from Rogers and Stark as if they were the source of it.

"You get where this comes from? This is coming from inside the castle walls; this is people with more juice than anyone here could ever hope to have. You guys did $160 billion worth of damage to New York and they have no head to mount on a spike, they are righteously pissed, and you guys start standing up and making noise to defend your buddy… Guess who becomes a target too?"

Stark spits his Chinese food out, looks absolutely pissed.

"We're the goddamn Avengers, we saved the world, people love us. I got so many Twitter followers, Justin Beiber weeps at night because he feels small and insignificant."

"Jesus, I miss Barton already, he was the cool one. No, universal love don't exist anymore, welcome to the TMZ century; nobody agrees on shit expect it's fun to bitch about stuff. Since the dust settled, you are distinctly unpopular according to polls. MSNBC just ran a piece how Stark Industries rebuilding efforts are war profiteering, grabbing up prime property on the cheap. Thor better be ready for a lot of loud voices asking for reparations from Asgard if he manages to make it back, not to mention the backlash from the religious nuts. Cap here is now getting slammed by the Left and the Right, not to mention what the rest of the world thinks of our star spangled man. For fucks sake, Banner is being called a weapon of mass destruction and good ol' Thunderbolt Ross is lobbying for my job."

"What's TMZ?" Steve looks distinctly lost.

"We are helping rebuild Manhattan." Stark looks enraged, the war profiteering jab hits a sensitive area.

"Ross!?" Romanoff looks like she might be sick.

"I need Barton in the wind; it's the only way some good old fashioned black ops can get done right now, away from the damn spotlight. Because right now I'm stuck putting out fires, I dread waking up to the possibility of having to go on Piers Morgan, finding out there is a Black Widow sex tape on the internet or Greenpeace screaming about the environmental impact of interdimensional space/time portals and alien invasion aftermaths. He knows how we hunt, he's a motherfuckin' pro, he's already got us wasting resources chasing down red herrings."

"So you really don't know where he is? Or is this some super-secret spy game you're playing?" This from Stark, suspicion painted across his face, Rogers echoed the look.

"Every conceivable exit out of the city and country is being rundown, nothing. Known associates are under surveillance, which is a nightmare; his past dating history is killing our budget. That mutant activist woman with the witchy hoodoo Maximoff is almost impossible to monitor and now Science Division is falling to pieces since Pym found out his wife has horrible judgment in regards to her personal life. So far, nothing," Fury looks quite pleased with this despite his complaints. ""I have to give the appearance of following orders on this one, but I have no doubt that Barton will evade capture, son of a bitch is a sneaky little shit."

Tony looks vaguely intrigued by the drama but still far from convinced, Rogers is harder to read beyond a general sense of worry.

"Sir, this is complete unacceptable, we have to do something." Romanoff looks absolutely murderous. Stark begins to crudely wonder aloud whether some of that anger stems from Barton's apparent inability to keep it in his pants, before being cut off by a dark look that makes him fear for his manhood, his curiosity about the extent of Romanoff's partnership with Barton does not outweigh his survival instinct.

"We are. We are all keeping our own travelling shitstorm as far away from him while he works, unless he contacts you, at which point you do not tell me or anyone. I need plausible deniability. He needs to be seen as a rogue agent right now, you guys publically aiding him just digs our graves deeper."

"Works on what?"

"I let my last, best dog off the leash and told him to go hunting; he's going after the World Security Council. Those poor bastards want to lob nukes at American soil and try and get away with it, hideaway and drop a motherfuckin' alien invasion at my man Hawk's feet. They are about to learn exactly why his ex-wife hates him so much, that cocksucker can ruin someone's life like nobody else."

The smile on Fury's face is practically perverse.

Barton is cold and wet, and the stench of this place is turning his stomach and the ship hasn't even docked yet. Shelter needs to be found, because as much as a badass as he likes to think he is, spending the night on the streets here is almost guaranteed suicide. Coming half way around the world to bleed out in some back alley before he's made anyone feel half as shitty as he does right now is not the plan. Owing Wanda's creepy and condescending brother for getting him out of the country was bad enough, but travel at such intense speed has left him with the acrid taste of vomit in his mouth. Add to that the indignity of being carried like a damsel in distress across the continental United States and most of the Pacific Ocean; Clint has rarely experienced fouler moods.

The island was largely a riot of vegetation, dark and maddeningly twisted. The impenetrable jungle a place of thick, heavy, sluggish air and shadow giving way to something monstrous and free around the still water of the bay craved out of the rock.

The Principality of Madripoor was an explosion of steel, glass and light that dominated the eye. The Jewel of the Orient, Hightown with its towering futuristic skyscrapers of the financial district, the Sovereign Hotel and the opulence of the Dragon Palace. The history of the island though was crime, violence and corruption and the bright lights cast long shadows. The jungles still held isolated landing strips used by drug runners, while the world famous harbor was a hive of smuggling and piracy. The foundation of the city though was sprawling Lowtown, a lawless medieval domain of hopelessly poor and dangerous.

The world's most expensive matchbook in Barton's hand would lead him deep into the squalor, teeming streets filled with knock off clad street urchins with knives as sharp as their smiles, dense and crowded neighborhoods divided along gang lines and the opportunity to find entertainment to distract the darkest of minds. Barton hefts his canvas duffel and moves through neon lit puddles on Beggars Road, ripping a match out, his eye catches the book as he shelters his cigarette from the rain.

The garishly bright cover read _The Princess Bar_ and the inside had Foon's neat scrawl with a single command:

_Find_ _Patch._

It is in Fury's departure that Natasha realizes how volatile things are at SHIELD, with always ambitious Maria Hill arrives and the discussion between the two is heated, Hill has mutiny and dissent crawling under her skin. Fury need not worry about Ross as his replacement, Hill will certainly be maneuvering herself from within, and her outspoken loyalty towards America over the international mission SHIELD supposed to represent will certainly play well with some very powerful people.

Rogers is part of the group to leave, apparently enticed by whatever Fury has to say. Natasha recognizes Agent Wilson, a tall, dark and powerful figure, as well as Agent Vaughn, an affable blond fellow she has always considered to lack the killer instinct, standing in the background. Also lurking within the confines of the black SUV is Agent 13, and Natasha knows Captain America is off on his own adventure.

"OK, so who exactly are the World Security Council?" Starks demands when they are alone once again, although he tries to make it sound like a polite inquiry.

"Fury's bosses, although SHIELD is technically an American agency, it functions as an arm of an international coalition, largely organized to increase funding and give the international community a nominal say in extranormal security issues and reduce international outcries about American unilateralism. Representatives from China, Russia and the UK sit on it, in addition to an American."

"Yeah, sure, got that, but _who are they_?" Stark seemed to think that was an insufficient answer.

"Classified above top secret, I wasn't sure Fury even knew who the hell they were. What intelligence he gave to Barton, I couldn't say, I doubt it exists anywhere besides whatever documents Barton now has."

"Well, what we just sit on your asses? This is Avenging type stuff here, Am I right or am I right? I'm right, by the way."

"There is no we here, I can't use you here, you're too visible, too loud. Disappearing, blending is in my job description, and like you said, there is nothing real about me; this isn't even my real hair colour."

Tony can't question if that last part is a lie, as he is cut off by the loud blaring of a ring from his phone, some song Natasha doesn't recognize. Pepper's angry and panicked voice bursts out before he even gets the phone to his ear, it seems she will not need to expend any time and energy distracting Stark; the job is already being done.

Happy helps open the trunk of the car, and Natasha disappears into New York with Barton's gear before Tony can talk Pepper off a ledge.

The Princess Bar reminds Clint of the opening of Temple of Doom meets Tortuga, a kind of Second World War era glamour veneer over cutthroat underbelly. The women, clothes, and ambience is all very classy; but the money is dirty and the air has a tension that makes you room feel like its moments form bloodshed. A wanted man has no fear of being recognized here, the faces in this room litter wanted posters the world over. Barton largest worry is the inadequacy of his attire, a woolly pully and cargos stands out, no matter how expensive or sleek they might be. This is a crowd using high fashion to disguise their brutality and bloodshed, Barton is quite sure the guns hidden in jackets and straight razors concealed in the under dresses are all pearl handled and gleaming.

There is a blonde man in a white dinner jacket and black bowtie. His sharp British accent softened by smiles, cigarettes and scotch; he seems to be the center of the action. Clint makes his way to the bar and drops his duffel loudly enough to draw the attention of the necessary people. A scotch finds to way to him before he can order.

"Hey there sailor," says Mr. Dinner Jacket. "Haven't seen you around here before, although I must say the face is familiar."

"Not a sailor," Barton grunts, years of ingrained distaste for the Navy coloring his speech. "And I just happen to have one of those faces."

"Is that right Mr. Barton? Swore I saw your sunny smile on the BBC a while back."

"Well, so much for sneaky…," Clint grimaces, which has nothing to do with the mouthful of scotch. "You have me at a disadvantage, you know who I am and I have no idea who you are or what you want."

"Oh, how horribly rude of me," Dinner Jacket smiles winningly. "O'Donnell is the name."

Barton has the distinct impression that is a lie; this man is an impeccable liar. O'Donnell pauses to shake the hand of a passerby, exchanging pleasantries with a man Barton is pretty sure is behind a coup d'état in a small South Asian nation that abundantly exports minerals, refugees and gruesome visuals for the Western media to tell stories no one will ever do anything about. The small grimace after the exchange is over tells Clint that O'Donnell finds his clientele of finely dressed villains distasteful but not distasteful enough not to take their blood money. Although Barton is in little position to express any moral superiority, he is a paid killer by trade.

"And as for what you want, or is the bounty on my head large enough that asking that is stupid?"

"Oh no, I have no interest in bounties, if I start turning in the punters to the proper authorities, this place would be empty."

Barton concedes that is true, though remains wary.

"So…"

"Merely here to try and spread some hospitality, and ensure that I'm not going to have any trouble out of you."

"No, not looking for any trouble, just looking for some information."

O'Donnell scrutinizes Clint, trying to weigh the truth of this, he seems to believe him as he signals for another round and claps Barton on the shoulder.

"Well then, maybe I can help you out, if it speeds you on your way."

O'Donnell is as subtle as a sledgehammer; the man's help is contingent on Barton finding the exit as quickly as possible, it seems there is a threshold to how infamous you can be in Madripoor. Clint has a few options at this point; he needs to make progress quickly.

"I'm looking for a man named Patch."

"You're sure that's the name," from the way O'Donnell freezes, Barton is on the right track. Barton nods, and O'Donnell sighs and stubs out his cigarette in a nearby crystal ashtray, slugs back his scotch with resignation.

"Well, you best follow me if that is the case."

Barton hefts his bag over his shoulder and proceeds to follow O'Donnell, the crowd parts for him, eyes tracking them with interest. Towards the back of the bar, there is a poorly lit booth; even Barton's sharp eyes have trouble making out the lone occupant of it between all the shadow and smoke.

"Proceed with caution Mr. Barton, my partner is a bad-tempered fellow," and with that the slick and flashy blonde retreats.

Barton moves closer, the smoke coils around him as more detail reveals itself. The man in the booth is powerfully built; the gray suit he wears strains around the arm and leg that fall in the light, a fist Barton certainly wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of clenches a thick cigar. The side of the face not shrouded in shadow reveals an eye patch that obviously gives origin to the name, as well as a familiar unruly haircut and sideburns. There is a flash of sharp canines, a twitch of the nose as Clint realizes who is watching him approach.

"Have a seat bird brain; seems you've come a long ways."

"Logan?!"

Natasha has an airy, state of the art duplex loft in a former textile building in Tribeca, which she has an obsessive need to keep clean and orderly. The hand painted Tuscan walls don't have a picture that isn't perfectly level, the Brazilian cherry hardwood floors shine, there isn't a cobweb to be found even though her ceilings are over twenty feet and the double height windows are spotless. Her lavish kitchen and bathrooms sparkle. Natasha Romanoff does not believe in mess or disorder.

If anyone were around to see, or if anyone actually knew her well enough to know, would realize the clutter on her kitchen island is unprecedented. Piles of documents obscure her Burlington Blackstone counters, the process had started out quite orderly, but frustration has made Natasha chaotic. There are piles of birth certificates, passports, social security cards, driver's licenses and various other basic documentation that comprise the myriad of false identities Clint has built up over the years. Romanoff's desktop in the other room has been fed this data in hopes of finding any trace of some shadow of Barton; the lack of accompanying credit cards gives Natasha hope, although it is a slim one.

Some of the documents are seemingly benign, copies of his divorce papers, medical records, a will, power of attorney, banking information. There are mission reports and intelligence assessments that Romanoff assumes Barton has copies of as some modicum of insurance, although they obviously aren't enough leverage now. These were scanned into her computer and checked for various coded messages. So far, this has all proved fruitless so far. Romanoff has patiently waited while cleaning and examining Barton's weapons this afternoon to be repeatedly told document after document is completely innocuous.

Clint has left her with a variety of handguns to keep her busy. There are two custom M1911s that have had nearly everything tweaked; triggers, grips, compensators. They are old and well cared for; Natasha treats them reverently and tries not to wonder why they got left behind. A SIG P226R with a tactical light, night sights and extended barrel, and a P229 with custom grips; both of which Natasha has seen Clint carry on the job before. A stock HK P30 and a short barreled S&W Model 500, which Natasha remembers as a backup weapon in Ciudad Juárez. In addition there is a quality selection of knives, as well as a tomahawk that keep her hands busy while playing phone tag with various overseas contacts. Romanoff collects the bulk of the weapons and stores them away in a floor safe; she places one of the M1911s under her pillow.

There are only a few untouched items left from Barton's apartment. A HK416 and HK417, both littered with aftermarket extras, lying on the tan mat they were carried in and Clint's quiver and bow, equally customized. Natasha has avoided Clint's precious trademark, she tells herself it is because she has no idea how to handle or care for them, not because laying hands on something she has previously been told is strictly hands off would feel like an admission that Clint may never come back for them. As Natasha bends to address the rifles, her knee upsets the quiver sending it toppling over. Something moves inside it, which is strange, there are no loose parts, the arrows and heads are locked tightly in place to prevent mishaps even while under extreme circumstances. Some investigation reveals Clint's little black book haphazardly slotted amongst the arrows, it was amateurish to have missed this for so long, her emotions blinding her. She has seen the disordered entries of Barton's past conquests in it on occasion, though it has been some time since Clint has had any real need for the information inside, their partnership has spiralled into an all-encompassing thing. Natasha eyes it warily, she has little desire to delve through the disaster that is Clint's romantic past, but this is the first real spot of hope so far. The rifles are forgotten, there is only one course of action now. Natasha will comb through this book, trying every name and number, searching for something beyond just failed relationships and jilted lovers.

"I swear, there better be something worthwhile in here," Natasha blusters against the silence of her apartment. There is a desperate plea that she will not give voice outside the dark recesses of her mind. Romanoff grabs her phone and punches in numbers.

"Agent Drew? This is Agent Romanoff…"

"So, uh.. What's with the Fury impersonation?"

"Funny thing Barton, eyes just don't grow back overnight."

"Oh, so it's all gross and healing under there?"

"Wanna see?"

Before Clint can protest, Logan lifts the patch up and it takes a minute to realize once he finishes recoiling that there is a perfectly good baby blue blinking at him.

"You liar."

"You shouldn't ask to hear stories from liars, they might lie to you," Logan chuckles. "Story's true, just old. Swung through here a while back, made myself a name, it pays to keep the story goin'. Got me some pull with the natives, somethin' of an authority figure here in Lowtown, wouldn't want to upset that by losin' my super cool eye patch now would I?"

"Ok, so you're running the criminal underworld out of a bar? That totally sounds like something you would do."

The one eyed glare is just as effective as Fury's, more so even, Fury doesn't have adamantium butcher knives poking of his clenched fists to add to the equation.

"Now, what has you runnin' in my direction? That don't happen too often, people are usually smarter than that."

"You've seen the news?"

"Yeah, you're a real celebrity these days, must burn Fury somethin' fierce his secret agent man is on the six o'clock news. Aliens huh? That must been some tussle, almost sad I missed it."

The sharp teeth leak smoke, the smile more a gash across his face than anything friendly.

"Yeah, okay so, I gotta clear my name or at least, you know, shoot some people for making me put up with this shit."

"Got anyone in particular in mind?"

Barton pauses, the bar is pretty loud, and while there are a few eyes on them, nobody is really close enough to overhear. Still, Clint lowers his voice and leans in close. The information Fury managed to gather for him was sparse, but the one solid aspect of it was a detailed profile on one of the Council members. It's a start, if he can get to the first, he can fill in the blanks on the rest.

"Liu Wo-Han."

"This is a conversation best done somewhere else."

Logan, or Patch as he insists upon, leads Clint once again out into the night. The streets are sparsely travelled, although Clint notices predators lurking in shadows at every turn, briefly revealed by the passing of headlights or the flash of a neon sign. Their destination is apparently a brothel, reasonably well maintained at least from the outside.

"A whorehouse?"

Logan shoots him a look that makes Clint know there is a joke he isn't getting, and it's probably at his expense. The proprietor is a small but effusive woman named Rose, who sets Clint up with a tiny room that is slightly cleaner than he expected it would be.

Barton takes the opportunity to inspect the room as Logan rummages in his jacket for a cigar, checking sightlines out the window. His bag lies on the bed, which Clint eyes dubiously, but reasons he has slept on worse. Logan occupies the lone chair in the room and motions Clint to sit on the bed.

"So, big game huntin'? Liu is pretty hefty trophy. Black King in the Hong Kong Hellfire Club, Chairman of the Central Military Commission, stacks of money from mining and mutant slave trading. You better be damn sure about this?"

"He's also the Chinese representative for the World Security Council and my only lead to the rest of them; I need to be able to put some pretty direct pressure on all of them to get myself out from under this." Clint knows how bad this is; just thinking of the magnitude makes him weary. Clint's body sags, he stares at the floor, things can't get much worse.

"Alright well, what you got in the way of hardware?"

Barton unpacks his meager supplies; Pietro hadn't let him carry much with him. Besides a few changes of clothes and a fair amount of cash, he has a few weapons. The chief of which is a rifle, his AX338 with Schmidt & Bender scope, but it wouldn't help him up close and he needed to be able to get in a room with Wo-Han. He had an MP7 with a suppressor and optics, but the limited ammo was a problem as it was pretty unique stuff. In addition he had the FN Five-Seven tucked in his waist next to the two knives holster red in the small of his back, and the little Russian PSS strapped to his ankle that wouldn't do any good outside of close range but it was silent. There were a couple more handguns, a HK45 with laser sights and a Ruger Mk II with an internal suppressor. Clint really wished he had brought his bow, but a guy with a bow tended to stick out in a crowd. Bullets, especially in this part of the world were sadly all too common.

"Nice Ruger, don't see these often enough," Logan picks up the silver gun, sighting down the barrel, his eyes fall on the HK. "Laser sights! What happened to the World's Greatest Marksmen?"

"Hey buddy, I'm not telling you how to… uh, cut things, you leave the shooting to me."

"Fair enough, but kid, not enough gun here. Not nearly enough." Clint knows this, as he unpacks his combat vest, pouches and harnesses. He has enough ammunition for the handguns for a small operation, but small it not the word for this, and he is sorely lacking any heavy artillery. Logan picks up the vest, snorting at the collection of crude Velcro morale patches in the place of where his SHIELD logo should be. "No worries Hawkguy, I know a great tailor in town, great for getting' ready for parties."

Clint gives him a questioning look.

"Sit down, we need to plan. I owe you and Nat a favor, so the ol' Canucklehead will ride shotgun on this. Liu will conviently be in town in a few days for the party for all the big muckity mucks, sippin' champagne up at the Dragon Palace while talkin' 'bout regional economic prosperity. Sovereign Hotel is booked solid, and Prince Baran has attack dog General Coy closing down the Hoggvelt Throughway, cleaning up Lowtown of troublemakers with his army of jackboot thugs. Got troops in the streets ensuring a quiet holiday season."

"Great. So I literally have to fight an army."

"Hold up, there are some great things about our little Gomorrah on the Pacific here, all that tension. This is Madripoor kid, revolution and riot break out every Thursday." Logan stubs out his cigar, sits down and his fingers drum against a flask he pulls out of his jacket, a distinctly metal on metal sound is produced. "Evil General Coy hates corrupt Prince Baran. Tyger Tiger, Roche, Viper, all the crime lords round here hate ol' Nguyen Ngoc Coy and the Crown Prince. Natives get restless, people could get distracted. I got a friend over at Landau, Luckman & Lake that could probably help facilitate a sit down with some of the movers and shakers, help you crash your party."

"So to get into this party, I have to help destabilize a regime?"

"Sounds fun don't it? Been too quiet 'round here lately, good fight will help liven things up."

"Okay, this… This is bad," Clint collapses on the bed, blindly reaching out a hand for Logan's flask. So much for trying to be the good guy, Christmas is around the corner and Barton is planning an armed insurrection, with a psychotic Canadian in a whorehouse, to overthrow the government of a backwater island nation and install known criminals as the new leadership. Some serious New Year's resolutions are going to have to be made.


End file.
